


Acclimation

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-26
Updated: 2008-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An affable guffaw was the least Gene could do.  It was also the most: his tonsils were seared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acclimation

The first bite left Gene reeling. He coughed and staggered and swore, then threw back a third of his beer in a last-ditch effort to placate his rioting taste buds. It didn't help much. His tongue was limp as a kipper; a fleet of fire ants sashayed down his gullet. At any moment, his guts would spontaneously combust.

Sam dropped his fork, a familiar look of worry knotting his features.

So _this_ was agony. Gene had previously reserved the term for those brittle minutes spent watching "Liberace's Very Happy Christmas" with the missus, but no, now the words 'Sam' and 'dinner' had met up for a bit of the old rough and tumble on a two-pilot cooker, he'd never again aim so low: the Tuesday special at Taj Mahal had nothing on poultry night at Casa Tyler. What's more, Sam eventually tumbled from his chair and circled round behind him, his ruddy medallion swinging against Gene's cheek as he slapped a flat palm on his back.

"Gene? Just hold on, okay? Breathe."

"You're a dead man, Tyler," Gene wheezed.

"What?"

"You... heard me."

"Shit, Guv. D'you need a glass of water or something?" Sam's hand was still on Gene's shoulder. Gene shrugged him off. All part of the wind-up, but damned if the dish wasn't hot.

"I knew you were sadistic," he said, "but to divest half the northern hemisphere of its spice reserve must've taken a refresher course."

"You know what they say about friends in low places. Need I remind you which one of us wanted to expand from canteen meals?"

"I suggested we eat out, is all." Gene let out a shuddering breath. "And this is decidedly in."

Sam sat back down, not meeting Gene's eye. Then he shook his head and loaded his fork with rice. "'S cheaper to eat in."

"Find yourself scrimping much?"

"The lap of luxury doesn't come cheap," Sam agreed.

Gene willed himself not to gape at the wallpaper, but the carpet couldn't be avoided. "Your flat is horrible."

"The lap of horrible luxury."

An affable guffaw was the least Gene could do. It was also the most: his tonsils were seared.

Which was not a condition he'd anticipated. This was supposed to be simple. Sam invited him over; Gene agreed. Beans on toasted white always tasted better when someone else made them. But then either Gene managed to arrive early or Sam was running late, and seven o'clock came and went long before they ever sat down to eat. After yonks of leaning over Sam's shoulder with a bevy of beneficial observations, and Sam eventually banishing him to the card table, Gene had been famished. Still simple.

So flash forward half an hour, and there was Gene, hands splayed on his thighs as he stared down at a culinary concoction so wholly offensive as to look like a glob of dredged canal mud with a side of wet newspaper. Tyler had the nerve to call it chili con carne. Gene had never eaten chili con carne, but he'd seen _Hang 'Em High_ enough times to conjure up the imagined scent of it at his leisure, and this wasn't even close. Hell, this probably wasn't even legal.

"Yeah?" Sam laughed at that. "In a world where nutrition information is scarcely a twinkle in the NHS' eye... You should be glad they check the groundwater for arsenic."

Gene nodded once. He wasn't exactly wrong. And by now Sam had munched a path halfway to the far side of his plate. The lad actually seemed to enjoy this mess, but aside from the telltale line of sweat along his upper lip, you'd think he'd served himself lemon custard. Sam tilted his head back as he chewed, exposing the pale length of his throat. There, just _there_ , Gene saw him swallow a cough.

Catching Gene's look, Sam quirked a brow. "It grows on you."

"So does a verruca."

"Try it again."

Gene did. This time, he was better prepared, and though the chair arms creaked with the pressure of his grip, he not only didn't outright gag on the stuff, but also managed to swallow it down without so much as a hiccup. Oh, maybe a little one, easily disguised as a belch after a swig of beer.

Sam was waiting. "Well?"

"Can't taste a thing," said Gene.

"It's a start."

If Gene put any sort of conscious thought into it (which he hadn't), he might have figured that Sam demanded more from his three-squares than the ability to be spooned straight from the can, tepid and salty. Which he did. Obviously. The bloody git. But this –- rice and slow-poached chicken and lumpy hot sauce and the rest –- this was nothing short of your actual cooked meal, Sunday dinner like. It confounded reason. So when Sam eventually offered to make him an omelet (egg and cheese, he swore: no gimmicks) Gene batted Sam's hand away as he tried to relieve him of his plate.

"Leave off," he grumbled. "It's not like I can't handle it. And seeing as I bothered to dedicate pub time to this, I think can eat the bleeding stuff. You, on the other hand--"

"I'd've made it anyway," Sam said, pettishly. "Minimal effort, maximum results. Doesn't take company to eat well."

"I bet that counts doubly at breakfast."

Sam sniffed. "You'd be surprised."

"Yeah?" And yeah, he probably would. Sam drummed his fingertips on the table, more expectant than anxious.

Third time was a charm. Sod it, but he'd not give Tyler the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.


End file.
